As Mourning Doves Persist

Would one be more prone to stumble upon and stay with my blog if it was less poetry and more prose?  On the rare occasion that I have mentioned that I ramble around inside the forest of what are limitless blog panes of nostalgia and blog house decorating tips, blog news of romance and exits from blog homes to new url addresses put to the screen like fine needlepoint, and someone says to me, oh you post poems? , I have to pause.  Still I am encouraged that among the fierce holdouts, women I know who swallow novels whole like savoring the last important paragraphs against the end of the world, even these smart ones are beginning to also dine on poems.  I mean let's face it, our insecure midnight diaries penned as girls and the jackknife initialing of picnic tables by brutish almost men, were those torrid entries not haiku ? Isn't the graffiti that adorns street signs, Stop War , Speed Hump Me , not a riddle which closely resembles a limerick ? And does not a limerick f...

I came up Rodeo Road to Yucca Street and there  they were, reminders of what   I wasn't really sure.  But the big yellow  cutouts of wings  were riveting with  the late afternoon singing behind them, and who can deny Halloween in mid September, candied truth according to anyone who cares to listen in. I was never quite so saved until I was startled into staring into the light of three angels on stilts, silent as mass in a playground when attendance is limited to the sane.